


In Which The Picture on the Mantel Triggers Him

by cocoacremeandgays



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Dave is Pretty Broken, Dave was Forced to Grow up Too Fast, Depression, Epilepsy, Epileptic! Bro, Gen, Generalized Tonic-Clonic Seizures, Implied/Referenced Child Abusive Tendencies/Neglect, Implied/Referenced/Mentioned Allusions to Self-Harm/Self-Injurous Tendencies, Indigo Stuffed Crocodile Toys, Suicidal Thoughts/References/Feelings, mental breakdowns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-15 18:05:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7233088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoacremeandgays/pseuds/cocoacremeandgays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You don't escape. You can't.</p><p>You don't really know how you feel about that, but you know that you aren't allowed to feel. You are set up in a box, with rules pounded down upon you like you're just a meek little nail. The world is your project, and the rules are your hammer, keeping you grounded like you are the stake keeping the tent on the ground. You catch the rain, so your brother doesn't have to, and you keep the walls water proof so he doesn't slip. You're his protection. You're his house.</p><p>But every house falls down.</p><p>You just don't know when you will.</p><p>-</p><p>((Or: In which Bro has epilepsy, and Dave's just trying to keep from coming down.))</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Indigo (Prologue)

Your life has been a soundless array of motion picture entertainment that has no end ever since you were old enough to understand that he isn't going to get "better." It's black and white, life is. You've learned and come to realize it's best to ignore the prettiness or attractive qualities of different colored outfits. Monochrome is the only safe thing in your household, shades are proven necessary.

And with this realization, came the next one. The one that detailed to you that the child you were apparently supposed to be left years ago, when you were supposed to be focused on learning basic motor skills and playing with toys. Instead of playing with toy cars and biting stray puppet noses, though, you were taught exactly how to take the proper steps to prevent a seizure.

You spent hours on end memorizing all of his triggers to make sure you didn't cross a line not meant to be so much as looked at.

You learned that lesson at the age of nine.

And though you're still unsure as to why it plays such a huge role in your life, you understand why you need to keep as far away from that color as possible.

Indigo (and a few different variations of the color), as you have found, is one of the most dangerous colors known to Strider-kind. And as far as you are concerned, whoever discovered the shade deserves to burn in the fiery pits of hell.

Ever since you were a kid, you've been reprimanded and pinned to a constant corner because of the one time you brought home a stuffed crocodile toy, of the color indigo.

That night, you unknowingly triggered one of the worst seizures your brother has ever had.

Simply because you brought home an indigo stuffed crocodile toy.

Needless to say, you immediately felt guilty, and you threw the crocodile toy out in a trashcan at a park nearly three miles away. It made your legs hurt, walking all that way, in the blistering cold of the Texan night's air. Your lungs were on fire by the time you got to the trash can, and throwing it away was less of a relief than you thought it would be. Your heart felt like it was going to explode, yes, but you didn't care. You didn't care because you'd be damned if you let yourself trigger another seizure that bad.

You can't say you hate the hue itself- it's actually rather pretty- but Bro's brain apparently can't handle it, so you make sure to steer clear from now on.

You were coached on how to approach a seizure. Roll them onto their side, put something soft and small under their head, move away any furniture or items if needed. Remove glasses, loosen tight clothing, time it, and you do not, under any circumstances, put anything in the mouth of someone who is having a seizure, and no, someone who is seizing can't swallow their own tongue.

You've even gotten into the habit of wearing a sweater wherever you go, just in case someone goes into a seizure, so you can take it off and bundle it up, before putting it under their head. (This, mixed with the angsty, hormonal teenage brains around you and your unsettling quiet wherever you go, makes people think you cut yourself. But you don't care. It beats always being paranoid.)

You were taught how to properly administer medicine.

As soon as you could do all of that and more, you were left alone with him for the first time. He had a seizure at exactly 11:12 PM on the first day. You got scared and called Roxy. What else were you supposed to do? You weren't used to being alone with him during a seizure, not to mention you were only seven at the time.

Your name is Dave Strider, and your Bro has epilepsy. He has generalized tonic-clonic seizures, also known as grand mal, which, for the record, are generally no where near as spastic as they seem to be on television shows such as "Nurse Jackie", or "Grey's Anatomy", both of which are pretty good shows, though Jackie's an idiot, and Gray's Anatomy is... something of it's own.

You're not allowed to have anyone over, no matter what, because Bro doesn't want anyone to know he has seizures on a relatively regular basis. You can understand why, you guess. You're not too sure what it feels like for him, of course, but you're guessing it must be pretty embarrassing. A generally stoic man being reduced to a shell of a person during a seizure. He probably hates all the attention. He's always been one to hide in the shadows.

Your relationship with Bro is strained, if not nonexistent altogether. You've hardly spoken a word to each other, really- only exception is a grunt of "What do you want for dinner?" on occasion. He utters no noise to you on your birthday, but that's okay. You've come to hate celebrating anyone's birthday, especially yours.

You always stay holed up in your room on your birthday.

You barely saw him as a kid, so you guess that may have played a bit of a role in his reluctance to interact with you, along with your own reluctance to interact with him. You were never alone with him at home until you were seven. That does shit to a kid. You'd say to a parent, too, but you're pretty sure he doesn't give a shit about you. You had to get a job in order to pay for food to put in the fridge, and you have a back-up fund for Bro's refill in case he runs out and doesn't have money. He pays the bills, and rent, while you manage the food and prescriptions.

It's an easy little system you both fell into; a silent mutual agreement.

Roxy stopped coming over when you called the twentieth time when he had a seizure. She didn't get angry, she's too nice to get angry. She told you to try dealing with it on your own, because someone wouldn't always be available to head over. You dealt with one of his seizures on your own for the first time when you were eight.

You did pretty well, except for your mental breakdown after Bro woke up from his postictal state.

But you're sixteen, now. You have a job, you've dealt with hundreds of his seizures on your own, and you're, ultimately, used to it. You've been through the best days, weeks, and months of Bro's life (where you've existed in it), where the corner of his mouth would twitch upwards. That twitch upwards of his mouth, was virtually the exact same thing as bursting out into uncontrollable laughter. The same thing as a pat on the back, a, "You did good, kid." He's never said that to you before, though, and you don't think he really likes you enough to think about telling you that you did good.

Even so, you like to believe that somewhere in that dark mind of his, behind the black and white, and the medicine, he thinks you're a good kid. You like to believe that that twitch upwards of the corner of his mouth, means that he's proud. Means that he's smiling at you, no matter how minuscule the twitch always is.

You're sixteen now, and with all of the good days, weeks, and months, you've also seen the bad days, weeks, and months. Like the time where he needed to go to the hospital because of a seizure that lasted well over ten minutes. You think you heard the term "status epilepticus" having been used among the doctors throughout that week. You still don't fully understand what it means, but you understand that it's bad.

You remember when you were younger, and you had to stay in your room all day because Bro was having one of his bad days. His bad days are reflection days. Paranoia days. Epileptic fit days. Medicine days. Skip days. Fear days. Days you never want to relive.

And you're sixteen now, so even though you know that you only need to spend two more years with him, you feel the inextinguishable feeling that you understand all too well, ever since you were nine, when hope turned into falsities and truth hit you cold in the face like a slap from the dead.

He's not going to get "better".

And since he's not going to get "better", he's going to need someone to be with him all the time. He's going to need someone to remind him not to over do it, to remind him not to take too many pills in one time frame, even if the seizures get too bad, and if the seizures come too close together, someone will have to remind him to go to the hospital. He might be capable of taking care of himself, but you don't want to chance it.

Not again.

You aren't going to peg him with a dumb nurse, either. He might be an asshole, but he doesn't deserve to have to undergo 24/7 care with an idiot.

You don't do sleep overs, or hang-out times. You don't do birthday parties, or parties in general. You don't talk to people, and they don't talk to you. Study sessions are to be kept and done alone, in the privacy of your own home, where the ugly beige of the walls hurts in a comfortable way, and the cords on your floor make you trip. You don't take sick days. You don't fail tests. You don't argue. You don't rebel.

You don't escape. You can't.

You don't really know how you feel about that, but you know that you aren't allowed to feel. You are set up in a box, with rules pounded down upon you like you're just a meek little nail. The world is your project, and the rules are your hammer, keeping you grounded like you are the stake keeping the tent on the ground. You catch the rain, so your brother doesn't have to, and you keep the walls water proof so he doesn't slip. You're protection. You're his house.

But every house falls down.

You just don't know when you will.


	2. Normalcy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You draw up blank at John's messages, unsure whether or not you're supposed to wait until he's done telling you the story he apparently is so stoked about telling you, or if you should give him the lowdown that you're actually here and start bantering off about how you can't wait to hear what he has to say.
> 
> You go with the latter.

_**What is the product of (x + 5) (x3 - 2x - 3) ?** _

With a dull ache in the back of your mind, you scribble down the work-out problem for the equation, a simple one at that. Junior year is really going easy on you for the math side, considering you learned all this in eighth grade. You're no math genius, either; in fact, generic division is something you can't even do successfully anymore. It took itself to a whole new tier of, "In one ear, and out the other," which is actually incredibly inconvenient for you. The amount of division you've had to do in high school, as far as freshman and sophomore year go, is pretty high.

_**x = 7** _

You try your hardest to ignore the fact that you need to write a paper on _The Giver_ after you're done with your math assignment. Language Arts and versions of the class, are easily the most difficult thing you've had to experience in school. You may pump out metaphors like a goddamn machine, but you can't quite grasp why the hell the difference between a phrase and a clause matters so much. Not to mention spelling is literally one of your worst subjects. You have a vast vocabulary, but actually setting about to properly spelling that shit as if enticing the queen in some type of Spelling Bee? You might as well be illiterate.

You flip the worksheet over, and study the other side. Like every other worksheet that you get in your math class, it's set up in two columns, going from left to right in the numbering system. From the looks of these problems, and the ones on the front of the paper, these are two different sets of math homework on one piece of paper. You're not surprised. Your math teacher is literally the most nature-loving tree-hugger you've ever met.

Not that you hate her, she's actually one of the best teachers you've ever had. She's just a little too air headed. It's not uncommon for her to stick two one-sided worksheets together on a back-to-back set up like this, and there's no problem with that. Other than the fact that sometimes, she ends up mixing up the worksheets, and giving you either math that is your level on one side, and then when you flip it over, it's either way too hard, or way too easy.

Either that, or she's absolutely nuts, because who in their right mind puts parabolas and pre-algebra equations on the same worksheet and doesn't expect anyone to ask why?

Bemused and only slightly frustrated, you flip the worksheet back over, and pretend that you totally didn't know that there was a backside or flipside to this particular piece of homework. You can figure out how to do the rest of the equations later, by going ahead and taking a sneak-peak through those notes you ended up taking in your third period math class. If all else fails, the internet is there to guide you through some of the most difficult times in your life.

You pull out your other worksheet, the one that's not so much a worksheet, as it is a piece of paper describing how to write an essay based off of a question. This is what you got from your Language Arts teacher, so you could go ahead and write that paper on _The Giver_ without further question or help from anyone else.

Silence settling over you, you begin to read the minimal amount of text that's on the paper.

" _ **How to Write an Essay from a Question;**_

" _ **When you are given an essay question, the first thing to do is analyze the question to find out exactly what it is asking you to do. An easy way to do this, is to study each of the question topics carefully, and choose one that you find interesting. You may want to underline key words**_ \--"

That's all you get to read before you are Oh-So-Rudely interrupted by the sharp 'ping' of your Pesterchum letting off its eerily chipper notification sound. It's either Jade, or John, because you have a sneaking suspicion that Rose is off doing her psycho-babble nonsense elsewhere. You're perfectly fine with that, though. Let Rose run off and do her thing in peace, and you can do your own in an equal amount of peace.

There's only one way to find out exactly who's pestering you for sure, though, so you quickly hoist yourself off your bed and fumble over to your computer, clicking the window before it gets a chance to send the overly obnoxious sound. The sound itself doesn't annoy you, but you know it annoys Bro. Either that, or it's a total coincidence that he stops and stares at you whenever the sound decides to set itself off, either by accident or on purpose through a conversation on Pesterchum when Bro is around.

The excitable blue text reads that it's John.

 

\-- ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 20:57 --

EB: hi dave!!  
EB: okay, so, a totally funny story that i think you're gonna absolutely love just happened, but i mean, whether or not you *actually* love it will be up for debate i guess?  
EB: but, anyway, back to this incredibly hilarious story that i definitely should share with you right now.

You draw up blank at John's messages, unsure whether or not you're supposed to wait until he's done telling you the story he apparently is so stoked about telling you, or if you should give him the lowdown that you're actually here and start bantering off about how you can't wait to hear what he has to say.

You go with the latter.

TG: oh gosh man im so stoked to hear what you have going on over on your metaphorical plate of eccentricity  
TG: because from what ive read of your insatiable urge to dilate an acute monologuous rant from either me or you in a reciprocity of action, its that you definitely have something i need to know RIGHT NOW  
TG: RIGHT HERE  
EB: haha! whoa, dave!  
EB: i would ask if someone put a generous helping of some strange bees in your bonnet, but i think that that is a little obvious right now!

A glance towards where you left your homework casually lounging on your bed like some lazy cat only gone through one third of their nap, has you wondering if you have the time to chat up something fierce with John in the first place. You don't exactly want to leave him hanging on that branch now that you've answered him, but you also don't want to give your homework the procrastination you've been itching to try out for once in your life.

You decide against waiting to do homework, and one more studious stare at your computer screen tells you that you have enough time to go ahead and grab your things, and settle yourself at your desk, rather than on your bed. One thing that you've learned how to do after settling into a life style of constantly resting on the edge of a bloodied fence post, is how to multitask. This in itself, is a pretty simple thing to master. You write your paper when you're not talking to John, and talk to John when he replies, or expects you to go off on a tangent.

The simplicity of the plan has you reeling for action, but just before you can scurry off to gather the things on your bed, you find that your computer has gone back to pinging with wild abandon. The fucking noise gets you every time. You twist around in your desk chair, and read what John is taking the time to type out.

EB: okay, so, anyway, here is the story.  
EB: i am about to give you the lowdown, are you ready?  
EB: ugh! i can't wait for you to take the time in analyzing my egbertian ways, or whatever, dave!  
EB: here, i'll just tell it.  
EB: so, i was sitting on my bed, looking at that one little monsters poster i got way back when.....  
EB: remember that, dave? that little monsters poster? gosh, i do.  
EB: well, i mean, of course i do, it is kind of in my room. but that is beside the point!  
EB: i was sitting on my bed, looking at the little monsters poster, and the topic of birthdays came in to my mind 

Yeah, no, you're out of here. Birthdays can wait.

You get out of the desk chair which you don't remember taking a seat in in the first place, and leisurely make your way over to your bed. You don't even let the cheerful noise of Pesterchum's notifications deter you from taking your sweet, sweet time in gathering your notebook and paper from the top of your bed. You hate to disturb their obvious comfort, but you need to multitask right now. You'll apologize to them later, when you're too tired to differentiate the real world from the world of your imagination: which is a pretty wild ride, might you just go ahead and say.

You grab your pencil, your notebook, and that "How to Write an Essay from a Question" worksheet, before you purposefully let yourself get distracted by the clock that hangs upon the wall opposite where you stand. It ticks casually, foreword, foreword, foreword; you think twenty seconds end up passing before you finally head over to your computer, the incessant 'ping' from your computer still never ceasing.

You reluctantly read over the next messages.

EB: and i realized that i had totally forgotten that those were a thing.  
EB: including the fact that i totally forgot that you even had one.  
EB: including the including fact that i totally haven't sent you a birthday present in a really long time!

Oh no.

EB: this will be the fourth year i haven't sent you a birthday present if i kept letting this go on.  
EB: which i decided that i won't.

Oh hell no.

EB: so, drum roll please  
EB: ...

Your fingers hover over the keys, although you find yourself physically unable to type. You told John not to send you birthday presents anymore, that's why he stopped. Has he forgotten? He must have, or else he wouldn't be doing this. You told him that you don't want birthday presents. God, him and how airheaded he is.

EB: dave?  
EB: daaaaave??  
EB: fine, i'll do the drum roll then.  
EB: dududududududududum  
EB: i'm sending you a birthday present this year!

Okay, you have time to talk him out of it. This is good.

EB: well, okay, i already sent it, technically, because your birthday is in a few weeks!

You have no time to talk him out of it. This is bad.

TG: what  
TG: john  
TG: no  
TG: no no no  
TG: in fact, hell no  
TG: hold the fucking press  
TG: hold the fucking press so hard it ruins all the copies of the up and coming new york times  
TG: i specifically told you not to send me bday presents anymore thats why you stopped remember  
TG: you said oh okay dave i wont send presents anymore  
TG: keywords "wont send presents anymore"  
EB: dave, of course i remember that.  
EB: i'm not an idiot, i remember you specifically telling me that birthdays are not really your thing.  
EB: trust me, i remember being so confused!  
EB: because, i mean, everyone likes birthdays!  
TG: yeah well i dont  
TG: how about we take a step back  
TG: and just not  
EB: well, i don't know what to tell you, dave!  
EB: i already sent the present, because your birthday is literally in sixteen days!  
EB: besides, i have no idea why you dislike them so much. they're days to be celebrated, dave, it's the day you were born!!  
TG: yeah  
TG: and you know what else birthdays mean  
TG: they mean youre literally one year closer to dying  
TG: is that something to celebrate?

You keep a close eye on Pesterchum in your peripheral vision as you turn your (practically) undevided attention to that "How to Write an Essay from a Question" paper.

You don't get very far in reading, when you hear another ping from your computer. John is probably back at it again, sending you things to persuade you that your birthday is something exciting and fun. You read over his replies silently, eyes lazing over the blue text that's coming out in short bursts before you.

EB: well......  
EB: not when you explain it THAT way, no.  
EB: but.....  
EB: what about birthday cake? don't you like birthday cake?  
TG: no  
EB: oh yes, that goes against your diet.  
EB: the diet of nacho cheese doritos and apple juice!  
EB: how could i have forgotten?  
TG: your sarcasm is failing  
TG: you need to jump that ship before it sails for much longer  
EB: oh, man!  
EB: dave, just let all this up, okay?  
EB: now, i am sending you this birthday present whether you like it or not.  
EB: and if you don't like it, well, i'm sorry!  
EB: just let me have this moment to feel good about myself because i'm doing something good, in theory.  
EB: i know you are a real crowd pleaser, dave!  
EB: so, if you aren't going to accept the present for you  
EB: i don't know...  
EB: accept it for......  
EB: me???  
EB: ugh, that sounded so selfish!

As much as you'd decidedly love to argue with John about birthdays for the rest of your night, you feel more obligated to shut off this conversation before it derails into something intense and unimaginably uncomfortable. You're just about to tell John fine, be that way, when something else catches your attention.

Your fingers are already further splayed upon the keys on your keyboard, your fingertips itching to just go ahead and type away, when you hear a very loud crash come from the kitchen. You're instantly put on high alert, and type out something that you weren't planning on typing out, before you shoot yourself away from your computer in a dash. Living in your household, you know the signs of when something inscrutably bad is going to happen, and right now, with that loud crash having come from the kitchen, you know that shit is about to hit the fan in a very unattractive manner.

The odds of Bro going into a seizure when he's standing in the kitchen are incredibly high, and you can't risk that. The kitchen is one of the most dangerous places, especially considering the distasteful booby-traps that Bro placed when you were about to turn thirteen and never took down. The point from twelve to thirteen years old is when Bro's seizures seemingly stopped altogether. The corner of his mouth would twitch upwards more often in those two years, than the rest. You both began and ended strifing in those two years.

You run out of your room and leave your computer on the pesterchum screen, letting those final letters hang in red.

EB: ignore that!  
TG: fuck brb  
EB: what?  
EB: dave  
EB: dave, hold on  
EB: can't whatever that is going on wait??  
EB: daaave! 

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] is now an idle chum! --

EB: uggghhhh.

\-- ectoBiologist [EB] has ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 22:00 --


End file.
